


Switchup

by Pinkmanite



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Language, Slight Flirting but Otherwise Platonic, Slight Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q takes to the field and Bond gets to play Quartermaster for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switchup

“I don’t understand why you complain so much, this is the greatest job in the world. All I’ve to do is look at a computer and talk to you. In fact, you have it even better; you have the pleasure of talking to me!”

“You’re breaking my concentration, 007. Kindly shut up, please,” Q murmurs, just loud enough for Bond to hear. The earwig feels uncomfortably noticeable whenever Bond speaks. Oh, how does Q miss being on the other side of the comm.

“Hardly,” Bond scoffs, “don’t think you can fool me, Q, you’re in a lab on your own doing some snotwork, I can see you on the CCTV.”

Q glances at the aforementioned camera in the corner of the lab and wishes he could make an obscene gesture at it. Never know who else is watching, though, so Q opts to verbally express his wishes instead.

Bond isn’t so far off in his observations, however. Q is secretly grateful to have Bond in his ear, not that he’ll ever admit it. A month in the Belgian countryside may seem enticing to some, but not when your cover is that of a freshly-graduated engineer for an illegal arms dealership. Reconnaissance missions aren’t usually monitored this closely, but given that Q isn’t classically trained for fieldwork, M had insisted on the extra precaution.

At first, Q essentially throws a tantrum upon receiving his assignment. Well, as professional of a tantrum as possible. Why can’t a field agent do this? He can tell them what to do over the comm, it isn’t that hard. Have ‘em wear a tiecam, Q can make all the necessary observations from there.

But this is a mission specifically about the cutting edge of lethal technology and there exists no field agent with enough technical training to properly observe, conclude, and act in discreet and succinct of a manner that Q is capable.

Q whines and groans but accepts his fate.

His original communications operator is R, but the Q-branch can’t run itself. It’s too much for R to be constantly monitoring a recon mission while simultaneously balancing the daily duties of Quartermaster and her own position. Q muses that M really didn’t think this one through. Additionally, as much as Q appreciates her professional abilities and her friendship, R is lousy at keeping him company in this desolate prison of a lab. It’s one thing to be constantly talked down to and underestimated in French, of all thing, but to also have a voice in your ear constantly asking questions about administrative affairs? Please.

Within a week, R is returned to her Q/R duties and is replaced with a very bored, very sulky, and frankly, otherwise very useless 007, who still has yet to be cleared by Medical.

“I’m almost done sabotaging that RPG ordeal. Has M said anything about arrangements for my return?” Q begins reconstructing the same sniper rifle for the fourth time, committing the components and construction to memory. This one will be fun to replicate back home.

“Return? Hasn’t M told you? Things have gone so well over here that we’ve decided to just sell you off.”

Q can hear the amusement in his voice but doesn’t hesitate to haughtily reply, “as if an illicit gun tech could afford my rate.” Bond sputters on the other end and Q assumes he’s choking on his latenight scotch. Good. Bastard had it coming.

“You’ll have to give me your ratecard,” Bond recovers smoothly, “in ten days, of course, once you’re back in London.”

That’s enough of a relief to let the comment slide. Q can’t help but smile. He hums his acknowledgement as he finishes up with the rifle.

“Will my office be in the same state as I left it?”

“Not at all,” Bond says as if stating a fact, “it’s a mess in here. Plus I’ve moved your cats in, much more convenient to have all your affairs in one place. Your flat is absolutely dreadful, saves me the misery of having to go all the way out to that shack to pour kibble in Fluffy’s dish.”

“I haven’t a cat with a ridiculous name like Fluffy, nor do either of my darlings eat dry food. I hope you’re just messing with me because if I come home to my kittens in the pet emergency room, I’ll have your head.”

“Don’t worry, R handles the devils, my only duty is stalking you all day. Speaking of which, I’m fairly certain that the bloke in charge of the explosives department has a thing for you. Can’t seem to keep his eyes off your arse. Only when you’re not looking, of course.”

“Is that jealousy I hear,” Q cheekily quips, “but are you talking about Guillaume? He’s married!”

“Married men? Aren’t you a naughty one,” Bond is insufferable and Q is bright red.

Q is about to offer a response when Bond suddenly interjects in a drastically polar professional tone, “two labcoats and three guards coming to you. Looks like trouble. About thirty seconds. There’s a pistol on a shelf behind you--yes that’s the one. Put that down your trousers so they can’t see. Fifteen seconds. Get busy, look productive. Keep the rifle in reach, its magazine is adjacent to the case. They’re coming up now, don’t worry, I have your back.”

As much as he tries to act natural, Q tenses when the door opens.

“ _Hello gentleman, what can I do for you,_ ” he greets in impeccable French. The words drip in Q’s practised Belgian-accented drawl. Bond inhales sharply. Never gets old.

“ _We’d like to ask you some questions, Monsieur Mercier. We noticed multiple alterations in the schematics for Project Chalumeau and your supervisor pointed us in your direction. Care to explain?_ ”

“Q, calm down, see what they know. They might not know exactly what you did. Fish for what they think you changed.” Bond’s voice soothes his nerves. He takes his advice.

“ _There was a slight error in the resistance values. Daan--my partner--he rounded to the the tenth instead of the hundredth. You have to be especially precise with explosives, never know what could happen if it’s just a little off, yes--_ ”

“Stop rambling,” says the voice in his ear. Q obeys without hesitation.

“ _If you just needed to fix the resistance, why did you change the capacitors and reconstruct the wiring?_ ”

Q really hopes they don’t notice the colour drain from his face.

“Keep handling the labcoats, play dumb. Moneypenny’s been monitoring you from Mons, she’s taking the helicopter, should get to you in ten minutes. I’ll handle the guards.”

True to his word, the guards are immediately sent off on a chase for a break-in, courtesy of Bond’s walkie-talkie interference.

“Good thing R made buttons for these kinds of things. She’s on her way, by the way. M, too, he’s on the phone, actually. He’s this close to ordering your extraction.”

“ _The new resistors we needed weren’t standard issue… I figured that changing the capacitors would counteract the resistance issue? I’m sorry, I should’ve checked with my supervisor--_ ”

“ _I can’t believe the idiots they hire these days, it’s embarrassing_ ,” Labcoat Number One grumbles to his buddy.

“ _Look, just don’t mess with anything without your supervisor’s discretion, alright? Go home, kid_ ,” Labcoat Number Two takes the pacifist approach. Good on him.

Q nods submissively and starts to pack up his workspace when a guard decides to bust in and ruin his day. Hell, if he’s honest, his entire past month because now his entire mission is officially botched.

“He’s a spy!” Yes, Q particularly loathes this guard.

“Now how did you know,” Q freezes, hand still halfway into his workbag. The guard barks at him to “turn around slowly with hands up” in heavily accented English. Bond’s trying to say something in his ear but Q is far too focused right now to pay attention. If he were on the other end of the comm, what would he tell Bond to do? What would Bond actually do?

Which is how Q ends up throwing a smoke grenade and running for his goddamn life.

“Since when do you carry smoke grenades in your pack?” Bond is slightly incredulous but mostly impressed, “What else have you got? Any exploding pens?--Oh! Take a left and up the stairs, good, keep going. There’s some guards after you some thirty seconds away but I’m having an awful amount of fun playing with R’s little walkie-interception tool here. Just get out and hide. Moneypenny should be there in five to extract you. M gave it his blessing.”

“I can’t believe this botched. After all that,” Q ducks into a doorway at Bond’s order, nearly missing a troop of guards bounding across the intersection ahead. He proceeds with a huff. “An entire three weeks in Belgian hell all for naught.”

“Oh stop being such a baby, your cover’s blown but it’s not completely botched--take a right--I’ve seen all the guns and rockets you’ve taken apart and put back together for the hell of it. It’s gonna be Christmas in R&D over the next few weeks--down those stairs and you should see the exit--Plus you know the gist of the big guns, you can start tinkering up a counterattack.”

Q sighs in relief when he pushes open the heavy door and the cold air hits his face.

“You there! Stop!”

Shit.

“Fuck. He was in my blindspot, I’m sorry, Q, just be--”

_Bang!_

“I’m really sorry, mate,” Q says sincerely, quickly taking the guard’s belt and tightening it around his abdomen, just above the gunshot wound.

Bond is yelling frantically in his ear to “leave him and to get the hell out of there! His friends are coming in fifteen seconds and they will not be so kind as to stabilise the holes _they_ put through _you_.”

“I’m not a field agent, 007,” Q sighs, “I have a conscience.”

“And I don’t?”

“Oh come off, I didn’t mean it like--”

“It’s alright, Q, I understand. It’s my job to kill. It’s not yours.”

“I really didn’t mean it like that.” He can hear the helicopter, it must be behind the hill.

“I know, Q,” firmer this time. “Tell you what, you make me that sniper that you just took apart in the lab and I’ll forgive you.” A smile in his voice this time. Q relaxes. “Do you see Eve yet? She should be right around there.”

Sure enough, the helicopter peaks into view and Q decides he’s never been happier to board a flying death machine. Once Q scrambles into the helicopter, Bond signs off the comm and Moneypenny flies them back to Mons. She helps him clean up and puts him in a hotel for the rest of the night. R emails him his flight plans (“Better go buy some of those flight anxiety pills,” he huffs) and Q is back in the office for debriefing by noon. It thankfully goes faster than Q expects, which allows him to hurry to Q-branch to reunite with his precious cats.

Which is how Q finds James Bond on the floor of his office, cautiously petting a fluffy grey cat. He can barely hear Bond coo, “here, pretty kitty, your mummy’s coming home today,” another cautious pet, “you like that, yeah?”

Q can’t help but burst into laughter, startling both the agent and his cat. The poor creature immediately abandons Bond and runs up to paw at Q’s feet. He scoops the fluffy thing up and hugs it.

Bond huffs, standing and straightening his suit out. “Right, well,” he clears his throat, “I’ve had enough of this Quartermastering thing. Medical cleared me this morning. Let’s get ourselves back into the normal swing, yes?”

He’s hurriedly out the door but Q catches a glimpse of his blush.

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm still trying to get used to writing and characterizing these two. I still feel like they're kinda OOC here, so I apologize for that! 
> 
> However, if you did enjoy this work, I will love you forever if you gave it a like or reblog on tumblr, thank you! <3


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